I nearly finished sewing the last raglan seam. How can it be that in an entire day I did not even finish one seam, you may be wondering? Well, #1 son, whose jacket this is destined to be, was standing over me nagging me, while I debated with #1 daughter (via IM) the deep question of whether Fairfield CT is actually now called Bridgeport CT. And if so, should one go to the historical society, or is it too dangerous there?

While #1 son shrieked “Umgawa!” at me and asked when I would finish, much as other children say, “Are we there yet?” every few minutes. He was, I hasten to add, being funny.

And I have to say that I had just gotten home from choir, where The Little Red Haired Girl has decided to be an alto. She is an annoying little girl, and I find it especially annoying that she says, “I’m a natural alto” in her high squeaky voice after spending all these months singing soprano.

Why does this irritate me? I don’t know. But I know that, having had her in my section of choir and then coming home and trying to sew up the raglan seam while IMing with #1 daughter and having #2 son stand over me being admittedly humorous but decidedly annoying — well, it interfered with my productivity.

Work also interferes with knitting, doesn’t it? And I did have to show up at the shop yesterday, after all.

Cleverboots had brought a friend into the store to meet us, and we had a conversation covering censorship, Desperate Housewives, dog training, book storage, and whether jumping rope is harder on the bosom or the bladder. When we got to the question of why students were not allowed to carry backpacks or purses at the junior high (weapons and drugs), another customer joined in, pointing out that this meant the girls had nowhere to carry their tampons. Men, we concluded, just weren’t thinking when they made up these rules. Thus refreshed, those of us who work at the store spent the remainder of the morning moving furniture. After lunch, I was up and down the ladder arranging toys for five solid hours. I confess that I was tired by the end of that time, and I was glad that I had skipped the weights at the gym that morning. The toys are looking good, though.

So, what with one thing and another, I did not get very far on Brooklyn. I have hopes for this evening, though.

Assuming I do not smother #1 son between now and then. Fortunately, when he came out this morning pointing out that it has finally cooled down and now, because I did not finish his jacket, he has no sweaters to wear and will freeze to death — well, instead of smacking him one in the puff, I was able to go to the Historical Sweater Shelf and pull out four sweaters in his size. Made by my grandmother, who was an expert knitter. Lucky him.

Now, you may be wondering why I am putting up with this behavior.

The fact is, my recent experience of irrationality has given me some extra sympathy for people behaving badly because they can’t help it. Slightly badly, at least. This kid is sixteen, so he could be doing much worse things than nagging me about the jacket. Smoking behind the barn. Selling drugs. Murdering people. Sixteen year-old boys do that kind of stuff. This is why people used to send sixteen year olds out to do exhausting stuff. After plowing a few fields, helping a knight on and off with his armor, or hunting buffalo, they were too tired to be irritating, let alone dangerous.

Do you like the way I have compressed human history into a response to teenage hormonal activity?